Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One

Out Of The Ash I Rise With My Red Hair And I Eat Men Like Air.

As A Poet, One Lives A Bit On Air. I Always Like Someone Who Can Teach Me Something Practical.

She Stared At Her Reflection In The Glossed Shop Windows As If To Make Sure, Moment By Moment, That She Continued To Exist.

At This Rate, I'd Be Lucky If I Wrote A Page A Day. Then I Knew What The Problem Was. I Needed Experience. How Could I Write About Life When I'd Never Had A Love Affair Or A Baby Or Even Seen Anybody Die? A Girl I Knew Had Just Won A Prize For A Short Story About Her Adventures Among The Pygmies In Africa. How Could I Compete With That Sort Of Thing?

Love Is The Bone And Sinew Of My Curse.